


The Sampler

by Meldanya



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meldanya/pseuds/Meldanya
Summary: Jack Robinson is a respectable man with a strict routine who enjoys the quiet life. Until he meets Phryne Fisher.





	The Sampler

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Phrack for once! Another little drabble for March's Year of Quotes.

The sampler hanging in his kitchen read: "The nicest and sweetest days are those that bring simple little pleasures."   
  
Rosie had embroidered it before the war; she'd loved that quote from  _ Anne of Avonlea _ : 

> "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string."

He had kissed her when she had read it to him and told her that it was true -- every day with her was so sweet and simple. And he loved it.   
  
His home had been his joy then: Rosie had valued the quiet, pleasant days softly slipping to pleasant days.

It had been a sheer pleasure to slip into the home that Rosie had made for him and their little domestic routines: mornings in the garden, afternoon tea on the porch, evenings reading together by the fire.

Even after the war, he'd found comfort in their quietness -- a relief, an escape from his grisly day-to-day murders or the horrors playing repeatedly in his head. It gave him comfort to still see his wife across the breakfast table in the mornings, and by his fireside at night.    


What a pity he had never told her that.   
  
After she left, he still found himself sticking to their old routines: trying to find some joy in the days slipping by. It never quite worked, but he was still the same regular man. A respectable man with a strict routine who enjoyed the quiet life. The same old Jack Robinson.    
  
And then he met Phryne Fisher.   
  
There had been nothing about the soft little pleasures of life with her.    
  
With her, it was lurching daily from one burst of terror and adrenaline to another, from the very first moment he got into that death trap of a Hispano-Suiza.    
  
She was splendid.  _ (Did she just climb through the window of the victim’s house?) _   
  
She was wonderful.  _ (Did she always carry a dagger in her garter?) _   
  
She was exciting.  _ (He didn't know how he tackled her to the ground before the sandbag struck her _ .)   
  
She was in his office, his life, every single day -- glorious chaos trailing behind her.   
  
His quiet peace was shredded. His evenings alone with cocoa and a book were replaced with nightcaps at Wardlow in her sparkling company.    
  
He became too busy to miss Rosie. The divorce date crept up on him, when he had expected to morosely brood over it for months. But Miss Fisher was intoxicating; he found himself craving a murder on the odd lulls between cases.

The day he signed the divorce papers, he couldn't go home. He didn't want to. He had a case with Phryne Fisher and he wanted every rush and thrill that came with her. 

As he carried her out of that Egyptian tomb, he thought: _this is my new normal_. And he loved it.   
  
That night, he took the sampler down.


End file.
